


The Madness of the Shadows

by parisian_girl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-06-30 06:46:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15746445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parisian_girl/pseuds/parisian_girl
Summary: Paris in 1939 is a dangerous place to be...especially if you're spying for the British. But when a Jewish refugee girl turns up on Phryne Fisher's doorstep, she has no idea just how complicated and dangerous life is about to become.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm a little nervous about this one....it's AU, multi-chapter, and probably eventual smut...all the things I usually avoid writing! But it wanted to be written, so here we go. I had planned to split this first chapter into two, but had a last minute change of heart, so it's a long one with a lot crammed in. Future chapters will probably be shorter and sometimes a bit slower. 
> 
> Massive thanks to TorieGirl for betaing and for soothing my nerves :).

_“Go mad with me, for madness is the wisdom of the shadows” - Natalie Clifford Barney._

_“People see what they wish to see. And in most cases, what they are told they should see.”_

_“You’re in the right place at the right time, and you care enough to do what needs to be done. Sometimes that’s enough.”_

_\- Erin Morgenstern._

 

_***_

 

_October, 1939_

 

Paris in the autumn, as in every other season, was both beautiful and ugly.

The trees along the river were heavy with burnished reds and golds, warmed by the last of the sun, and the stone of the buildings glowed softly in the mellow morning light. Even the murky depths of the river itself reflected a little of the blue sky and wispy clouds, and it was only when one of those clouds moved lazily across the sun that Phryne Fisher pulled her light coat more closely about her and increased her pace. She loved to walk along the river, taking her time and letting her mind wander, pausing sometimes for a short, sharp coffee at one of the tiny hole-in-the-wall style cafés, sometimes picking up a newspaper and perching on the edge of the stone-built bank to read it. But today she was tired. Restless. Not in the mood for lingering. Her heels clicked off the cobblestones, neatly sidestepping the _clochards_ and their rolling wine bottles, and she wrinkled her nose against the stench of stale alcohol and unwashed bodies, wishing she could filter it out and simply enjoy the freshness of the changing seasons instead. It had been a long, hot summer, and she was more than ready for something new.

But her job was not to filter. Her job was to absorb, and she did. She felt like she had lived every nuanced change in the city over the past six months, heard every rumour, sensed all the heightened emotions, and felt every spark of the increasing panic and uncertainty. The endless round of parties, dinner dances, salons and theatre visits had doggedly continued despite the impending conflict, and she knew that London had approached her precisely because she was there, in the right place in the right time, able to speak fluent French, on everybody’s guest list, and unlikely to turn down an invitation. It gave her remarkable freedom to listen, to observe, to notice, all the while doing what she had always loved to do best. Yet the more of this work she did, the more tired she became of the society that enabled her to do it in the first place. The frivolities annoyed her, the conversation bored her, and - while she understood it to some extent - she found the constant displays of extravagance to be over the top. One memorable July evening had seen the most opulent, bizarre party that Phryne had ever witnessed, and she had almost left in disgust at the entrance of five elephants, eight white ponies, and the host dressed as a circus ringmaster. It was a sign, she had thought then, of things to come, and the only thing that prevented her from walking out had been the hope that, out of the seven hundred or so other guests, there was sure to be one that would give her some useful information, and perhaps another that she could take back to her bed. 

Her reports back to Whitehall, short and rather dismissive at first, had grown longer and more detailed. She had begun to view them almost as a diary, a weekly record of life in a city being driven, half-blind, towards a war it didn’t want and refused to believe would have any impact, even after the official declaration at the beginning of September. _Paris_ , she had written this morning, _is a city on the brink. Everyone sees what is happening but no one wants to face it. Vogue is exhorting women to ‘help fashion overcome the war around them’ (yes, seriously -and they appear to be taking it seriously too! I’m as much for an elegant dress as the next woman, but really…) and are giving advice on how to firm up breasts to look good for the soldiers being sent to the front….._ ”. She always loved picturing the look on Edward’s face as he read these missives before passing them on - strictly unedited - to the top brass further up, and she had to confess that the cheeky asides in amongst the political rumours and gossip on the ground had become deliberate. They brightened her day immeasurably, and yet there was beginning to be too much truth in them for her liking. As she ascended the steps that would take her away from the quai and towards her apartment, set back from the river in a quiet side street where monks had once prayed peacefully behind thick stone walls, she wondered yet again how long she would be asked to do this and, more to the point, how long she would agree to continue.

Her apartment was on the fifth floor, reached only by wide stone stairs that wound up through the darkness. The cool of the staircase had been like a balm during the hot summer months, but she could now begin to imagine it in winter and she shivered involuntarily. That was the worst thing about the place, though. Once at her door, darkness gave way to light streaming in through floor-to-ceiling windows, bordered by the wrought iron railings typical of so many Parisian buildings. The parquet floor squeaked, but she had grown used to that and besides, it was always useful to tell when a lover had sneaked out of bed and was on his way out. She never stopped them. Four bedrooms, a recently-installed bathroom, a well-equipped kitchen, a separate pantry - unusual for Paris, she knew - and two of the best staff she could possibly have wished for made up the rest. Sometimes, she found herself wanting to stay, no matter what happened. It was the closest she had ever felt to home. 

“Morning, Miss.”

“Morning, Dot.” Phryne gave her companion a wide smile as she slipped off her coat and hung it on the hook in the hallway. It was still early for her. She had dragged herself out of bed at what felt like a horribly unreasonable hour in order to code the letter and send it by the morning post, and now she wanted nothing more than a quiet couple of hours recovering. She had a dinner party to attend that evening and she couldn’t be seen to be falling asleep in the soufflé.  “Is there any tea going? I’m thirsty.”

“Of course, Miss, but….”

Phryne paused her steps, scrutinising Dot’s face. It was a friendly face, pretty and welcoming, and a face that was naturally incapable of hiding anything. She was working hard to change that. How Dot had survived in the sharp world of the Montmartre music halls she would never know, but now lying was an essential part of her job and Phryne took pride in how well she was training her new protégé. On this occasion, though, Dot wasn’t holding up so well under pressure. 

“Something wrong, Dot?”

She kept her voice light, but she couldn’t keep the edge out of her eyes. 

“Yes…oh no, Miss, not that kind of wrong. It’s just….”

“So no police officers waiting to arrest me for spying, then?”

“No Miss, not at all, it’s…”.

“What Dorothy is trying to say, Miss, is that there’s a small child in the kitchen.”

“Mr Butler, that’s even worse.” Phryne turned, with a look of horror, to the man who had silently appeared in the hallway. “Why?”

“She appeared on the doorstep, Miss.” He continued wiping his hands on the tea towel as if stray children at the apartment doors happened every day. “Wouldn’t utter a word, but…”

“She’s completely filthy and had nothing with her at all,” Dot shuddered, “and wouldn’t move from the doorstep. It was like she was paralysed, or something. We didn’t know what else to do.” She looked at Mr Butler for confirmation. “I tried to give her a cup of tea or some hot chocolate, but she wouldn’t even touch that.”

“Mr Butler?” Phryne again turned to the older man, her question written clearly on her face. “Should I be worried?”

“By a ten-year old girl, Miss? I don’t think so.” Bless him, he still kept up most of the pretence even behind closed doors, calling her Miss and attending to her every need. He was no more a butler than she was, but he did a very good job of it, and she often wondered what his background actually was. Then again, the less she knew the better. He was ex-intelligence, bribed back out of retirement to help boost her image as a wealthy socialite living it up in Paris, and that was all she needed to know. But she was still amused by the fact that they had given him the occupation to match his name. Perhaps it made faking it easier. “But she has nothing with her. She was alone.”

“Damn.” Phryne swore softly, and looked towards the kitchen as if a bomb was lurking in there. So much for her quiet morning. “And she hasn’t said anything?”

“Not a thing, Miss.”

“You know I don’t do children.”

“I understand, Miss.”

“Especially children with no name and no papers. That’s dangerous.”

“It is, Miss.”

“You’re not helping, Mr Butler.”

“My apologies, Miss.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“My advice? Get Dorothy to give her a bath and something to eat, and try again on a full stomach. She looks like she hasn’t eaten for a week, and I noticed her eyeing those fresh-baked biscuits in the kitchen.’

But a quick glance through the kitchen door told Phryne that the biscuits were already useless as a bargaining tool.

“Already eaten. Please don’t tell me they were coconut?”

“No, Miss. Chocolate chip.”

“Ok”. Phryne sighed. “In that case, I’ll try. Take her into the parlour, would you please, Dot. Let’s try and at least preserve the bread and cheese until lunchtime. And could I have that tea please?”

But the tea did nothing to lift her spirits when she saw what awaited her in the parlour, perched on her favourite chair with the velvet cushion and low curved arms. She was tempted to give up before she’d even begun and just take the child to the nearest police station, but something stopped her. Something in the child’s blue eyes that Phryne didn’t want to define.

“Bonjour.”

No response, so she tried again.

“Hello.”

Nothing.

“Guten tag?”

Still nothing. Phryne plopped down on the chaise longue with a sigh.

“You know you’ll have to at least tell me your name sooner or later. Especially if you’re going to eat all my biscuits.”

The girl looked up guiltily, and Phryne raised her eyebrow.

“So you do understand English?

The girl lowered her face again. Dirty brown hair hung around her face, and her dress was ripped in several places, hanging off her skinny frame. But it had once been expensive, judging from the material, and underneath the dirt the girl’s hands looked soft.

_Not a working class runaway, then._

“If you don’t tell me your name, I’ll have to make one up for you. I can’t sit here to talking to someone with no name.”

But the child’s face remained impassive behind the curtains of hair, and Phryne huffed in frustration.

“If I give you some sherbet will you tell me your name?”

But she might as well have been talking to the wall, which was just as well since, as far as she knew, Mr Butler did not keep a ready stock of sherbet.

“Fine.” She stood up. “You can wait here for the time being. Dot will bring you some tea. I have some things to do -“ _like sleep_ “- and then we’ll see what to do with you.”

She wasn’t the only one whose exhaustion was overtaking her. When she looked back at the parlour door, the girl was already fast asleep in the chair.

 

*****

 

_She dreamed of the circus._

_It was always the same. The huge black and white tent, glittering in the dusk with hundreds upon hundreds of fairy lights, loomed over her like a monolith as she stood, rooted to the spot. All around her people were exclaiming in wonder at the sight, but she felt only terror and yet she couldn’t turn away. She couldn’t run. Her sister was clutching her hand, pulling her forward, the excitement evident in her infectious laugh. ‘Come on, Phryne, we’ll miss the start!’ She tried to speak, tried to warn her and everyone else, but nothing came out. She couldn’t stop her sister running on ahead, disappearing into the tent that now began to run with blood, red streaks stark against the monochrome. She was crying with the effort, the words sticking in her throat like treacle. No one around her heard. The music played on, the cheers continued, the smell of the toffee apples became stronger, more cloying, mingling with the blood that she knew was her sister’s……_

“Miss? Miss Phryne?”

Her eyes popped open to see Dot’s concerned face hovering uncertainly over her, one hand resting on her shoulder. Her breath was coming heavily and she was drenched in sweat, and she swallowed, turning her face to feel the cool side of the pillow. Always the same. It didn’t matter that Dot had woken her, she knew how it ended. 

“Sorry, Dot. Nightmare.”

“Can I get you some water?”

Phryne forced her eyes properly open and pushed herself up to a sitting position. The bright sunshine darting in around the edge of the shutters felt harsh on her skin, and she blinked, pulling the duvet back up over her bare legs. It must have been around midday, but she found herself wishing it was midnight so that she didn’t have to face the rest of the day. Paris at the moment seemed too much like that circus; gaudy and exciting and glittering on the outside, but soon to run with blood that she couldn’t stop, full of ugly truths that no one was willing to see, lies and conjuror’s tricks that they were all too willing to believe, until she was no longer certain which side of the fence was the dream. Sometimes she could deal with it. But other times, it hit her like this.

“Yes, please.”

A full glass was thrust at her, and she guessed that Dot had thought ahead.

“There’s also….”

Phryne squinted up at her, glass halfway to her lips.“Spit it out, Dot.”

Her companion took a deep breath, and did exactly that.

“There’sapolicemanintheparlourandIdon’tknowwhattodoMiss”.

Phryne spluttered out the water she had just taken a sip of, her dreams and memories fading into the back of her mind.

She knew they would wait for her. This was far more important. 

“Say that again, Dot, but slowly.”

“There’s a policeman in the parlour, Miss, and I didn’t know what to do. Well, I think he’s a policeman. He had an identity card, but it wasn’t a French name and he had a strange accent. A little like yours, Miss. He asked to speak to you. I said you were asleep but he asked me to wake you.”

“Did he ask for me by name?”

“No, Miss. He just asked for whichever member of the family was home.”

Phryne slipped out of bed and walked over to her closet, trying not to let her fear show. As far as she knew, there could only be one reason why a policeman of any description was here to talk to her. Pulling on her cream trousers and light pink blouse, conscious of Dot’s gaze on her, she ran her hands through the waves of her bob and picked up her red lipstick. If she was going to be arrested for spying - a complete exaggeration, but the French were known for it, and they didn’t take kindly to other people looking over their shoulder, allies or not - then she was going to go looking good. And she wasn’t going to be taking Dot with her. 

“You remember what to do, Dot? If I have to go with him?”

Dot nodded, her eyes wide and fearful, and Phryne nodded reassuringly. 

“Good. I’m sure it won’t be necessary.” She paused at the door. “Is the girl still here?”

“Yes, Miss”.

_Another complication_. “Well, I’m sure we’ll cope. Has she at least had a bath?”

“No, Miss. I tried, but she’s been sleeping and….”

“No matter. Perhaps I can persuade our visitor to take her with him when he leaves.”

It was a half-hearted attempt at a joke, but Dot didn’t laugh. She looked absolutely terrified, and Phryne couldn’t help but give her a quick hug, hoping that the contact might calm her own nerves a little. Briefly, she wondered what Mr Butler was doing.

“Please be careful, Miss.”

“It’ll be fine, Dot. I’m sure it’s just something trivial. Why don’t you go and help Mr Butler in the kitchen…I’d quite like him to replace those biscuits.”

 

*****

 

“My apologies for disturbing you, Miss Fisher.”

“Not at all, Mr….?”

_Tall_ , her brain noted. _Dark hair. Long coat over three piece suit….he must be boiling under there. In charge. Authoritative._

_Blue eyes. Beautiful face._  

“Detective Inspector Jack Robinson.” 

_Faint Australian accent._ So, perhaps seconded? Her questioning look at his _police nationale_ identity card got her nowhere, though, and he didn’t take any steps to clarify. Instead, he got straight to the point. “We’re looking for a missing child. A girl. About ten years old.”

“Really?” Phryne raised her eyebrows at the blunt explanation, trying not to look over to where the girl was still perched on the chair.  “Children go missing in the city every day, Inspector. What’s so special about this one?”

“She’s a Jewish refugee.”

He raised his eyes to her questioning look, the faint glimmer in them telling her that she didn’t like what he was doing any more than she did, and her mind snapped into gear. _Interesting_.

“From Germany. No visa or papers of any kind that she could produce, and no family with her. She was supposed to be on the next train back, but gave the station guard the slip.”

“Oh.”

Phryne was quiet for a moment, letting his words sink in. What he had left unsaid was far more horrifying than the simple idea of a child alone on the streets of a strange city. She had heard rumours, of course, from Germany. Jewish businesses and properties destroyed, whole families killed. Beaten or stoned to death, usually, or taken out in the middle of the night and shot. Those who survived either stayed to face a life in the shadows, fearful of every knock on the door, or grabbed what they could and left. She had seen the bulging trains limping into Gare de l’Est, disgorging their pitiful load of refugees to take their chances in Paris, supposedly one of the most egalitarian cities in Europe. If, she thought slightly bitterly, that counted for anything now. The idea that the authorities would willingly send a lone child back to that made her feel sick to her stomach.

But she rallied quickly, hoping that her thoughts hadn’t been plastered all over her face. 

“Do the police not have better things to do?”

“Yes.” His frank admission startled her. “Which is why I’m trying to make this short. But I have my orders, Miss Fisher. She’s a refugee. And no refugee - Jewish or child or otherwise - is to be let loose in Paris without papers. A girl matching her description was seen outside this apartment earlier. So, as I’ve asked everyone else in the building - did you see her, and if you did do you know where she went?”

She saw his eyes stray to the chair. She saw them take in the wild hair, the grime, the ragged clothing, before they returned to her with a look that she couldn’t quite fathom. He didn’t push her, but waited, one eyebrow raised, and she took a deep breath as she realised.

He was giving her a chance.

She reached out a hand, and to her amazement the child slipped down from the chair and took it.

“Jane’s been with me a while now.” It was the first name she could think of, and she squeezed the girl’s fingers, willing her not to choose this moment to finally open her mouth. “My sister’s child. She likes to play outside.”

“I can see that.” 

Was that relief in his half smile?

“And I’m afraid I can’t help you, Inspector. I didn’t see anything earlier, I was in bed nursing a headache. As I believe my companion told you.” She hoped to a God she didn’t believe in that no one had seen her leaving for the post office earlier.

“Then I apologise again for taking up your time”. He replaced his hat, a rather old-fashioned looking fedora that had seen better days, but that somehow suited him. “But if you think of anything, or see or hear anything…anything at all.…” He paused, deliberately, and she took the small card that was offered. “Let me know.”

His eyes held hers, and she nodded, slowly. _A curious choice of words._

“Dot will show you out.”

She heard his footsteps recede down the hallway, heard the front door open and close, and felt the girl’s thin body sag against hers in relief. The Inspector’s words were still playing in her mind. _If you see anything, or hear anything…anything at all…._

The implication that he might know, that he might be an ally, or not, were ideas that she pushed from her mind.  She would ask Mr Butler later, or contact London - not the official channels, of course, but her friends who knew far more about the networks over here than any beaurocrat behind a desk in Whitehall ever would. For now, though, she had more important things to worry about. 

She had already failed one little girl called Jane. She wasn’t about to fail another.

Leading the girl over to the chaise, she sat them both down and took the other hand, small and ingrained with dirt, and closed her eyes against the memories. _Dirty streets in the heat of summer. Running wild. Stealing apples. Janey’s voice telling her it was wrong, but always running shrieking with laughter behind her as they made their escape. Circus tents that ran with blood that was all her fault._

“Now then.” She opened her eyes, and focused on the girl in front of her instead of the girl of her past. “I think it’s time you at least told me who you are, don't you?"

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the lovely comments on this! I really appreciate them. 
> 
> Thanks again too to TorieGirl for betaing and for all the encouragement:).

"I prefer Jane.”

 The silence had been so heavy and still that even the whisper sounded harsh, and Phryne started.

 “I’m sorry?”

 “My name.” The girl looked up directly at Phryne for the first time, and while her expression was sullen, her eyes betrayed her fear. “It’s Rosa, but I think I prefer Jane.”

 “Oh. Ok”. Phryne smiled, trying to put the girl a little bit at ease now that she had finally said something. “Well, I think we can work with that.”

 She paused. It was now almost mid-afternoon. She had sat with the girl for over two hours, waiting, and watching, and waiting some more as the sunshine of the morning slowly gave way to thin grey cloud. The light in the apartment was one of the things she loved about it; that even on a cloudy day it felt spacious and open, like the sky was not shut out, but came right into her living space and brought the absent sun with it. She had always hated dark and stuffy rooms. But she had the distinct impression that the girl - Jane, now - would have preferred somewhere cosier to hide as she started to tell her story.

 Oh, well. There was nothing she could do about it.

 “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

 She tried a gentle prompt, not wanting to frighten her but also not wanting to sit in silence for the rest of the afternoon, and she saw Jane bite her bottom lip.

 “I didn’t mean to steal it.”

 Phryne narrowed her eyes. This felt like a moment to be careful, and not pry too much.

 “I’m sure you didn’t.”

 “It was for my brother.”

 “And what’s your brother’s name?”

 But Jane shook her head, her face falling back behind the curtain of hair, and Phryne sighed. It had felt like a long couple of hours, and it seemed as if that was all she was going to get for today. And she still hadn’t decided what, exactly, she was going to do.

“Well, Jane. How about we introduce you properly to Dot and Mr Butler, and then we can have Dot give you a bath and find you some new clothes. How does that sound?”

 Jane nodded, mute once more, and Phryne took her hand.

“Mr B!” She forced her voice into a cheerful call as she led Jane through to the kitchen. “Our guest has a name. Meet Jane.”

Mr Butler put down the potato and the knife he was holding and beamed in their direction, holding out his hand to Jane.

“Well, Miss Jane, it’s lovely to meet you properly.”

To Phryne’s great surprise, Jane took the proffered hand - and was that the hint of a smile she saw?

Well, well. This could be easier than she thought.

“And Dot.” She indicated her companion, hovering next to Mr Butler, and Dot nodded and dropped a little curtsey.

Jane blinked, and Phryne stifled a giggle.

“Dot, I was wondering if you would take Jane for a bath, please?”

“Of course, Miss.”

“There’s some of that Marseilles soap still, I believe, and some lavender oil. You’ll have to give her a pair of my old pyjamas or something for the rest of today until we can get some clothes made the right size. And, Dot….” Phryne lowered her voice slightly, “you might want to take some salt and vinegar with you.”

“Oh.” Dot grimaced, but rallied quickly. “Yes, Miss. This way, Jane.”

Phryne watched the two of them exit the kitchen and head in the direction of the bathroom, Dot clutching the cup of salt and bottle of vinegar that Mr Butler had handed to her, before she sank down into one of the kitchen chairs. With a sound that was a mixture of groan and sigh of relief, she folded her hands on the table and flopped her head down.

“A little pick-me-up, Miss?”

She heard the sound of a tumbler being slid across the wooden table towards her, and she lifted her head slightly to see a large finger of whisky and, behind it,  Mr Butler’s fatherly face.

“Mr Butler….” She picked up the tumbler and downed it in one, “you are a godsend. And you know you don’t have to keep calling me Miss.”

“I find this line of work a little like being on stage.” He picked up the knife and half-peeled potato, and settled himself back down opposite Phryne. “Unless you stay in character, you lose the plot completely.”

“I think my plot’s already long gone.” Phryne heaved another sigh. “What am I going to do with her?”

“Well….” Mr Butler’s face turned serious, his steady scraping of potatoes belying his concentration and concern. “Might I suggest waiting until we have some more information from her? She may have family still in Germany.”

“She mentioned a brother”.

“It’s unlikely, if she arrived alone, but you never know.”

“You heard what the policeman said?”

Mr Butler nodded.

“I don’t even know if we can trust him. I mean, he left her here when I’m sure he knew all along who she was, but still….”

Mr Butler studied her for a moment before dropping the potato into a large copper saucepan. “Perhaps that’s the question to be answered sooner rather than later, Miss. Since he’s the only other one who knows she’s here illegally.”

“You haven’t heard of him?”

“No”. He shook his head. “Perhaps London may be able to help. Although I would advise, Miss, keeping this from Whitehall. They would order you to put her on the first train back to Germany.”

“I don’t think I can send her back, Mr B. Not when we know what’s happening. If her family were to come here that would be different. But I’m not sending her back to be rounded up and murdered, or to spend the rest of her life in hiding.”

“I understand, Miss.”

The look of empathy in his eyes made Phryne wonder, not for the first time, how much he had been told about her and her past life, whether he knew all about the wrong she felt like she had to right. But she didn’t ask. It was just another thing that she didn’t need to know. The fact that he never openly judged her, even if he knew anything, was enough.

“There are Jewish charities in Paris, you know”, Mr Butler offered. “That might be an option?”

“Perhaps,’ Phryne nodded wearily. “But you’re right. We need to know more. What time is it in London?”

Mr Butler looked up at the clock ticking softly away on the wall.

“Three o’clock, Miss.”

“Fine. I’ll see if I can catch Bert or Cec on the telephone. I might call Mac as well, and see if she can come and give Jane the once-over.  I don’t want to be dealing with anything more serious than hunger and tiredness, but you never know what the kid might have picked up on the train.”

“Good thinking, Miss.”

Phryne smiled back at him, satisfied with the subtle praise. She knew that Mr Butler would never tell her what to do, or give her advice unless she openly asked for it and really needed it. But she also knew that he had been in this game a hell of a lot longer than she had, and that he wouldn’t hesitate to overrule her if he thought it was necessary for their safety. Knowing that he thought she was handling this reasonably well, at least, made her feel absurdly good.

 

****

 

“How do you do it?”

“Bonjour to you too,” Phryne fixed on her best indignant face as she closed the door and helped her friend to divest herself of her jacket. The doctor had never been one to mince her words. “And what do you mean, how do I do it?”

“Pick up every waif and stray this side of the Seine.”

“Actually, Dot was in Montmartre when I met her.” Phryne led them through to the parlour, and poured them both a whisky without asking. “The other side of the Seine.”

“Figure of speech, Phryne.”

Elizabeth MacMillan - tall, striking, red haired, and handsome as ever in a smart brown trouser suit and brogues - settled herself on the chair that Jane had occupied earlier, placing her battered leather bag on the floor, and swung her legs over the arm as she fixed Phryne with a penetrating gaze.

“So who is it this time?’

Phryne sat down on the chaise, handing over one of the tumblers of whisky, and took a deep breath. It was a moment before she spoke, simply because she suddenly wasn’t sure what or how much to say. Mac was her oldest and dearest friend in Paris and she had no desire to put her in danger.

But, on the other hand, Mac was smart. She had guts - anyone who had survived six years of medical school as the only woman had to. She also had contacts, both at the hospital and in the charities who worked with the homeless and refugee populations. Those kinds of contacts could be invaluable.

Besides, Phryne didn’t want to be around if Mac ever found out that she had needed help and hadn’t asked for it.

“Her name’s Jane.”

“Ok.” Mac nodded slowly. “Happy coincidence?”

“She wouldn’t tell me her real name to start with, and I had to think of one in a hurry. It seems to have stuck already.”

“I’m not going to ask,” Mac replied drily. “Anything else?”

“She’s a Jewish kid off the train from Germany. She landed on the doorstep. No papers, no luggage, and the police were looking for her to send her back. I couldn’t just hand her over, Mac.”

Mac spluttered into her whisky, before slowly sitting upright and planting her feet on the floor.

“Fuck.”

“Couldn’t have put it better myself.”

“The police know she’s here?”

“One police officer…I think. I don’t know, I need to check him out.”

Mac nodded slowly. “You’re not thinking of keeping her here?”

“For the moment….” She saw the look on Mac’s face, and shook her head. “What else can I do? I can hardly turn her out onto the street, and I’m not handing her into the police after that officer gave me the chance to save her. They’ll just send her back, and we both know what would happen to her in Germany.”

Mac was silent for a long moment, sipping her drink, and Phryne waited. She knew that Mac was concerned for her safety. It was just as it had always been, even when they had first met in the bloody hell of the field hospital during the last war. Phryne always taking risks, Mac always watching her back. Phryne used to joke that one day it would be the other way around, but that day had not come yet and she was seriously starting to doubt whether it ever would.

It certainly wasn’t today.

“Ok,” Mac sighed heavily. “What do you need me to do?”

“Thank you.” Phryne reached over to take her friend’s hand and squeeze. “I mean it.”

“I know.”

“I was thinking you could check her over. Make sure she’s ok apart from being hungry.”

“And?”

“Maybe ask around?” Phryne knew she was pushing her luck, but she had to try anyway. “See if any of your colleagues have treated any Jewish refugees lately…anyone who might be looking for a lost child….perhaps a younger boy, she mentioned a brother….that kind of thing?”

Mac sighed, and shook her head…but it was a resigned shake, not a shake that meant no.

“I can try.”

“I know it’s a long shot, but there’s nothing else I can think of for the moment.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“No,” Phryne smiled cheekily, “but when has that ever stopped me? And besides, I have you looking out for me.”

“God help me,” Mac muttered into the last mouthful of whisky, but Phryne could see the twitch of her lips and the glimmer of laughter in her eyes. “How do I always let you lead me astray?”

“Not strictly true. I seem to remember one time outside the nurses’ quarters when it was decidedly the other way round.”

Mac chuckled at the memory, as she always did. “Hardly. I never heard any complaints, anyway. Even though it wasn’t the most romantic spot we could have chosen.”

Phryne smiled at her friend - a genuine, heartfelt smile that felt like too rare a thing lately. She had no words for what Mac meant to her, but she also knew that she didn’t need them.

“It was enough.”

“Enough to put you off for life,” Mac quipped as she drained her tumbler and stood up. "So. Where's the patient?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salt and vinegar mixed with warn water was supposed to be a remedy for head lice ;).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing our favourite red raggers ;). 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and for the lovely encouraging comments, and to TorieGirl for being such a great beta on this.

“Bert! That was quick.”

Phryne had almost snatched the telephone receiver from Dot when she had heard who it was. She had only called London three days ago, and even though she had realistically expected things to take much longer, it had still felt like a lifetime, for all of them. Poor Dot had almost jumped out of her skin every time there was a knock at the door, and had just about taken to not answering it at all in case the police officer had decided to change his mind.

“Well, Miss, we ain’t got much.”

Phryne almost laughed in joy at hearing Bert’s gruff Cockney tones. She had never met him, or his partner Cec. She didn’t even know if those were their real names. She had found the phone number, written in Edward’s neat cursive hand, tucked into her suitcase before she left London, with a note saying to call it if she ever needed “jobs doing” that would be outside the bounds of Whitehall. Since then she had come to think of Bert and Cec as her friends in the shadows. She thought that Bert was probably a bit older than Cec, but she wasn’t sure, and for some reason she pictured them as cab drivers, plying their trade along the streets of East London and, like her, quietly noticing and filing everything that they saw or heard for whenever it might be needed. She suspected they were communist, but she wasn’t sure and didn’t really care either way. And whatever she had asked of them, they had never let her down yet.

“Whatever you have got is better than nothing, Bert.”

“Tricky geezer.” Bert wasted no time, or words. “You were right on the accent, though. Australian.”

“Name?” Phryne doodled with the pen and paper that sat next to the telephone. She knew better than to take notes, but it felt wrong to have nothing in her free hand at all. Especially when she was nervous and had a flock of butterflies in her stomach that were ready to take off. 

“John Arthur Robinson. Better known as Jack.”

“So that bit was true, at least,’ she mused. “Anything else?”

“Whaddya take us for, Miss?” The rebuke was gentle but not unwarranted, and Phryne quickly apologised. 

“No need”, Bert brushed it away. “Anyway. He’s a bottle all right.”

Phryne didn’t like to stop him to ask what a _bottle_ was, and made a mental note to ask Mr Butler later.

“Served in the last war, went back to Oz. Melbourne. Got quite high up, it seemed. Married the Commissioner’s daughter and everything.”

“So he was a policeman in Australia after the war?”

“That’s what I just said.” The line was crackly, but Phryne could almost hear the roll of Bert’s eyes. “Had a pretty good gig going. But he went and divorced her, didn’t he. Or she divorced him. She accused him of sleeping with an Italian cook’s daughter. Caused quite the kerfuffle when the papers got hold of it. Seems the Commissioner’s son-in-law ain’t allowed to make his personal life his own.”

Phryne could well imagine. The stifling social hierarchy was one of the reasons she had decided not to go back to Australia herself. For a new country, it was very heavy on the Establishment.

“Rumour was he was going to have to step down, but one of his bosses had contacts in the French police. Buddies from the War, and all that. So strings were pulled, and Robinson got told he could either bugger off to gay Paree til it all calmed down a bit, or find himself a new job. The official line was that he was being sent over to learn new intelligence and forensic techniques. Then it all kicked off with Herr Hitler.”

“Didn’t they want him to go back then?”

“Yeah, but he refused. God knows why.”

“I think I do too,” Phryne murmured, but Bert didn’t seem to hear her. 

“That was the easy bit. We got next to nothing since he landed in Paris.”

“Next to nothing?’ Phryne queried.

“Only that he was accused of helping to forge papers for an artist. ‘Bout three months ago. The guy was trying to get to the States, but couldn’t get the visa. Robinson got hauled in for questioning after the guy spilled his name, but got let off. No evidence, and the artist had a grudge after he’d been arrested for drunk and disorderly a few weeks before. But that’s it.”

“Interesting,” Phryne mused, her brain going far faster than her words. “How long does it take to forge papers, Bert?”

“A few weeks, Miss. Give or take, depending on the circumstances.”

“Hmm.” Phryne twiddled the pen in her hands, her thoughts already far beyond the conversation. “Ok. Thank you, Bert.”

“No worries.”

Phryne slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle and sat thoughtfully, for several moments, her fingers twirling the pen round and round. She vaguely remembered the Australian scandal, although she hadn’t taken much note of names at the time. Her Aunt Prudence had waxed lyrical about it on a visit to London, but, as was so often the case with her Aunt, Phryne had switched off. She remembered making a flippant comment that she didn’t really see what the problem was - if the man wanted to sleep with someone other than his wife then surely that was his affair and nothing to do with the press or his ability to do his job? - but both her Aunt P and her mother had fixed her with such steely stares that she had kept her mouth and ears shut after that.

Now, she regretted that she hadn’t at least eavesdropped.

And then there was the story of the papers. She had become adept at reading between the lines lately, and she had no doubt that Bert believed the policeman to have been guilty - if that was the right word. Lines had become blurred over the past few months, right merging into wrong and black into white, and the grey areas were places that no one had quite gotten used to yet.Forging papers was illegal. It could save a life. It was also, Phryne thought, potentially very useful.

If she could bring herself to risk using it.

Heading back to the kitchen, pen still in hand, she paused at the door and allowed herself a small smile. Jane still hadn’t opened her mouth apart from to eat but, having been given the physical all-clear from Mac, had taken to helping Mr Butler in the kitchen. Phryne watched as he patiently showed her how to mix up the pastry for the chicken and vegetable pie, her small fingers - now mercifully clean, although it had taken a while - deftly rubbing the butter into the flour just as he demonstrated. And then she blinked in surprise as Jane, with a cheeky grin that she had not seen before, dipped those fingers in the bowl of cold water on the table and flicked them at Mr B. 

“Miss Jane!”

Jane giggled, a girlish sound that made Phryne’s stomach constrict with a mixture of love and pain. She couldn’t think about when she had last heard that little-girl laugh. Not now.

“Do I need to break up a food fight?”

She tried to be stern, but failed miserably.

“No, Miss, all under control. Miss Jane here has a cheeky side, but I think I’ve worked out what to do about that…”

And Phryne watched in amazement as her butler reached over and tickled Jane in the ribs, eliciting a small shriek of mirth and a pleading look from the girl to stop.

“It seems I need to keep a better eye on this household.” She sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of tea from the pot that sat, snuggled in its tea cosy, in the middle of the table. “Jane, I need to have a quick chat to Mr B. Why don’t you go and see if Dot’s finished that other dress for you yet?”

The girl nodded, the smile still lingering on her face, and slipped down from her chair. When she was safely out of earshot, Phryne turned to Mr Butler with raised eyebrows. 

“You’ve made quite some progress.”

“She’ll talk eventually. She just needs to feel safe, Miss.”

“Don’t we all.” Phryne absent-mindedly stirred some milk into her tea. “Mr B, I think I’m about to do something quite risky.”

“Oh?” Mr Butler raised his eyebrows, and Phryne thought he looked just like Mac. Like he wasn’t really surprised, and was just waiting to hear what the next madcap scheme was.

She couldn’t really blame him.

Slowly, Phryne outlined her thoughts. When she finished, he was silent for a moment, and she waited.

“It is a risk.”

“It is.”

“If you’re wrong…?”

Phryne raised her eyes to meet his. “Then we’re all in the _merde.”_

_“_ I’ve heard there are worse places to be, Miss.” Mr Butler smiled. “And if you are right, it could be very advantageous. But perhaps sleep on it. I find big decisions are always better taken on a full stomach -” he looked pointedly at Phryne’s teacup, the only sustenance she had had all day - “and a good night’s sleep.”

Phryne nodded. As usual, he was right. But she didn’t say that, while the sound of one of his chicken and vegetable pies was making her mouth water, she didn’t think she would be able to sleep. Bert’s information was spinning round in her head so fast she didn’t see how it would ever stop.

“Thank you.” She drained her teacup and stood up. “I think I need a bath before dinner.”

She was at the kitchen door before she remembered.

“Oh, and by the way, Mr B? Bert called him a “bottle.”

“Ah.” Mr Butler nodded and reached for the rolling pin. “Cockney slang. Bottle and stopper. Or bottle and glass.” He looked up at Phryne with a twinkle in his eye. “Copper or arse, Miss. Excuse the language. Cockney terms for policemen, and knowing Bert, I’d say he meant the latter.”

Phryne laughed - the first time she had laughed properly in days.

“I’d say you’re right, Mr B.”

 

*****

 

The bath was hot, lavender-scented steam rising in slow, lazy curls from the surface as she dipped first one toe in, then her whole foot. It felt so calming that she didn’t want to disturb it. The rest of her life had too many ripples in at the moment. And so she inched herself in, until the whole of her body apart from her head was submerged in water that was silky from the oil, the steam enveloping her like a cocoon. She breathed in, deeply. Closed her eyes. Willed Bert’s voice to fade from her ears, if only for a few minutes, but the conversation kept playing round and round in her head like a gramophone on a never-ending loop. 

She was exhausted. Her social calendar had been just as full the past few days as it had ever been, and cancelling would have drawn attention. So she had dutifully attended the party at Maxim’s, the luncheon at Colette’s, the dinner last night that had gone on until three in the morning. She had sent off her regular report to London. All the while, she had been thinking about Jane. Wondering what to do. She wasn’t usually given to worrying excessively - and these days she left that to Dot, who did enough for both of them - but she had had moments of concern. And knowing that it would be unwise to do anything before she had heard from Bert….well. Patience had never been her strong point.

Now she could do something. She just didn’t know whether it was a good idea.

She sighed, and sank down right under the water, letting it bubble in her ears and lap softly against her hair. Usually, she was good at making decisions. She went with her instinct and it had never failed her yet. It was why, back in the heady days of London after the war, when Edward had still been a policeman and she had been fresh off the whirlwind round of post-war parties, he had asked for her help. It had been the first of many cases of her own, the start of her self-styled career as a Lady Detective. And never once, not even when faced with a gun at her head, had she hesitated like this. 

But then, none of those cases had involved a small refugee girl called Jane.

She knew what Edward would say to her now. The same thing he had said to her on the eve of her twenty second birthday, meant well and objectively sound advice.

_Let it go._

She remembered his voice, letting it mingle with Bert’s in her clouded mind. The rain had been pouring that night; the middle of a mild, depressing winter following hot on the heels of a terrible summer. 1920. It had been the first year she had managed to visit her sister’s memorial stone since she had left for France in 1916, and Edward’s words had simply made her even more determined. They had also marked the end of their short-lived affair. And she had managed it, in the end. She had seen her sister’s killer hanged for murder.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position, sending water gushing down her body and steam swirling in all directions, and leaned back against the edge of the bath, the enamel cold against her pink skin. Her hair and face were dripping, but she let them, and closed her eyes again. She had every intention of staying in here, shut away from the rest of the world, until the water got cold and until her mind had stopped churning. Then she was going to thoroughly enjoy Mr B’s pie.

She was going to sit with Jane, as she had done each night so far before she went out, until the girl fell asleep. She might even manage a bedtime story, dredged up from the depths of her childhood memories and with her father’s embellishments taken out. She would have a small whisky in the parlour, to set her up for a good night’s sleep.

Then, and only then, would she do whatever it was she had to do.

 

*****

 

It was late that evening when she picked up the telephone, dialling the number with shaking fingers and the card clutched in her other hand. It was already worn and crumpled, she had looked at it so many times. Her heart was pounding so hard with nerves she thought anyone who picked up on the other end must be able to hear it, and it didn’t help when, on the third ring, a man’s deep voice answered.

She had half-hoped that it would be too late, that he would have gone home for the evening. But somehow it didn’t surprise her that he worked late.

“Detective Inspector Robinson?” She took a deep breath. “Miss Phryne Fisher. We met the other day.” She paused. Was she really doing the right thing?

Whether she was or not, she couldn’t back out now.

“I believe I may have some information for you.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so....we finally get to see what Phryne has been plotting for Jack ;).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments on this! I really appreciate them :). Posting may be a little erratic over the next few weeks - real life (pesky thing) is throwing me for a loop at the minute, plus the plot bunnies in my head are throwing a party over the upcoming Ficathon! - but bear with me, I promise I won't have forgotten ;). 
> 
> Enjoy!

The sunshine dappled through the last of the leaves on the trees, creating a moving kaleidoscope of patterns on the grass that was almost hypnotic. The gardens were not busy. Despite the clear blue skies, autumn had definitely arrived and the breeze carried a chill, a promise of things to come. There were a few women pushing prams, the babies inside wrapped up so well they resembled big balls of wool with sleepy eyes, and a few older folk scattered about the benches. A few office workers brave enough to sit out for an early lunch break. But apart from that, they had the gravel paths to themselves, and looked, to all intents and purposes, like a couple of lovers out for a morning stroll.

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was slightly horrified to realise that he wasn’t entirely averse to the idea.  

He closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun, pushing the thought away and allowing the last of the warmth to sink in to take its place. It was nowhere near Australian standards, but it would have to do. It was times like this that he missed being home. It would be spring there now, not autumn, and the world around him would be bursting into life instead of slowly dying. The peach tree in his garden would be blossoming, shyly at first and then flowering in full song. The hydrangeas would be taking over the back bed, as they always did until he trimmed them back, and the first of the season’s vegetables would be harvested. His garden had been his sanctuary. The place where he retreated to to think, or to wipe all thoughts from his mind. Cases had been solved in the unlikely confines of his potting shed, and arguments worked out amongst the prickly thorns of the roses. He had read Shakespeare and Zane Grey under the shade of the magnolia, and sometimes he had stuck his fingers in the ground and just got on with it in order to push all thoughts of everything and everyone from his mind.

He wondered if Rosie was managing to maintain the garden, and then he chuckled inwardly. Of course she would be. She would just have hired a gardener. She had never understood the appeal of spending hours outside with hands covered in dirt.

He felt like he could do with just such an escape now, and he opened his eyes to take another look at the woman walking slowly beside him. Dark hair, sleek and shiny and cut in a wavy bob. A smart burgundy skirt and cream blouse under a cream trench coat, all fitted and expertly tailored, polished off with brown heels and a brown clutch bag. All very fashionable, all up-to-the-minute, as much as wartime fashions ever could be. But it wasn’t what she was wearing that intrigued him. 

 _Green eyes._ He had noted those the first time they had met. _Red lips. Strong. Feminine. Very intelligent._

And something else that he couldn’t quite define.

But despite all of that, they had walked around the fountains and past the kiosk - now selling powdered coffee rather than the real thing - once already, and she still hadn’t told him why she had called. They had exchanged a few pleasantries, a few comments on the weather and mutual groans about the terrible taste of the coffee, but that was all. He sensed that she needed time. Time to trust him, perhaps? He didn’t know. He had followed his instincts and not pushed her, and besides, he already had his suspicions. He had done his research. But now he was starting to get a little impatient. He was normally a very careful man. He had thought twice about meeting her in the first place and, while he found he was quite enjoying the silent company, it was starting to put him on edge.

“Why did you call me, Miss Fisher?”

The question hung between them and, for the first time, he picked up on a hint of real nervousness. For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer, but then she countered with a quiet question of her own. 

“Did you know the girl wasn’t my niece?”

He stopped, and turned to look down at her.

He had known, of course, that it would be about the girl. It had to be. But he had expected her to at least keep up the charade a little longer. 

 _A risk-taker. Brave. And very direct._ He was relieved, in a way. He hated muddling around.

“Yes.” 

She nodded, her eyes thoughtful and wary as they looked directly into his, and he suppressed a shiver. It was a pleasant feeling. One that he hadn’t experienced for quite some time.

“Then why did you leave her with me?”

“The same reason you kept her.”

Another slow nod, and a moment that seemed like an eternity of standing, the world rolling past around them, each regarding the other and wondering.

When, he wondered, had trust become such a rare commodity? 

“We should keep walking.”

Phryne nodded, and, to his surprise, slipped her arm through his as they continued their stroll.

“I do have a reputation to uphold,” she said by way of explanation, her eyes sparkling cheekily at him, and he couldn’t help a small half-smile in return. 

“I’m not sure that a lowly policeman is up to your social standards, Miss Fisher.”

“So you’ve done your research, then?”

“Of course. I’m not in the habit of meeting strange women in the Luxembourg Gardens without at least knowing whether they have a criminal record or not.”

“Ah.”

“Breaking and entering?”

“Those charges were dropped.”

“The…uh….mug shots - if you can call them that - are still on the English file.”

Phryne shrugged breezily. “The whole thing was so ridiculous, I had to have some fun with it. The Superintendent was very apologetic once he realised that it had all been a mistake.”

“I’m sure he was,” Jack murmured, but Phryne continued as if she hadn’t heard him. 

“And besides. “ Her tone turned more serious. “I did some research myself.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“You had a little, ah….. _indiscretion…._ of your own.”

“I did?”

She tried to stop, but he kept his arm through hers and continued walking, his face impassive.

“Keep walking, Miss Fisher. We don’t want to be attracting attention.”

“I’m lucky I haven’t met someone I know yet.”

“Then at least we can try and not be overheard.” Easier in the open air, on the move. That was why he had suggested meeting here, and not a café or her apartment. There were far fewer nosy neighbours in the space of the park.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d asked one.”

“Fine.” He felt her huff a little, and take a deep breath. “Did you help forge papers for an artist to escape France?”

He kept walking, despite the urge to stop and look her in the eye with his reply. Another couple approached, arm in arm just as they were, and he squeezed Phryne’s fingers briefly as a warning to wait, to not say anything else just yet. He hadn’t expected her to hold on, her skin warm through her thin gloves as she nodded in greeting to the couple as they passed. 

Afterwards, he could never have explained exactly why he told her the truth, without explanation or preamble, or why he didn’t even try and duck the question. He didn’t know why he didn’t just roll out the official line as he’d always done before. And he didn’t know why his instinct told him to trust her. Perhaps he was tired of not trusting. Perhaps it was because she had taken a risk in trusting him, and he wanted to repay the favour. Or perhaps he was just relieved that she hadn’t dredged up the dirt of his divorce and demotion in Melbourne, still raw and rankling, at least not to his face.

He waited until they were alone on the gravel path before answering.

“Yes.”

He felt the air leave her body, and realised that she had been practically holding her breath waiting for his response. It was understandable, he supposed. If she had been wrong or he had been someone different, the question could have landed her in a whole lot of trouble.

He was beginning to suspect, though, that Miss Fisher was no stranger to that. He was also beginning to have some idea of why she might have asked to meet.

“Why do I get the feeling, Miss Fisher, that you’re going to ask me to do the same thing again?”

She stopped, and it was only as she looked up at him that he realised she was still holding his hand, her arm still tucked closely through his.

 _Those eyes._ Slightly wary, but with a depth and passion that felt like a balm and a thrill all at once. He didn’t want to hear the question, but he couldn’t look away either.

“Would you?”

 

*****

 

She waited, her gaze never leaving his. _Those eyes_. She had noticed them the first time she saw him, but up close and under the brim of his fedora they reminded her of the Pacific Ocean, deep blue, bottomless and unfathomable. As if she could drown in them.

He was still holding her hand.

“For the girl?”

Phryne nodded. The breeze had picked up and was playing with her hair, tossing tendrils over her face, and she froze as his free hand came up to her cheek.

“You do have a reputation to uphold, Miss Fisher.”

The fingers that brushed the hair out of her eyes were warm, his brief smirk teasing, and she almost laughed in surprise.

“And you’re doing a very good job of propping it up for me. But in the meantime…..yes. For Jane.”

They resumed their slow walk, feet now stepping in tandem, and Phryne felt some of the tension of earlier slip away into more business-like talk. _One agent to another_ , she thought. _Without either of us really saying a word._

“What has she said?”

His words were soft so that only she could hear, and she looked over towards the children’s swings as she answered, watching a toddler shriek in delight as he went higher and higher, tiny feet almost touching the sky. 

“Next to nothing. Her real name’s Rosa, but Jane seemed to stick. And she has - or had - a brother. That’s all we know. She’s closest to Mr B. He’s good with her, draws her out of herself a bit, but she hasn’t actually spoken at all.”

“Traumatised?”

“Probably.”

Phryne felt her stomach constrict a little, and she was unaware that she had squeezed Jack’s hand until he squeezed it back. She was surprised at how comforting it felt - and at how quickly she had started thinking of him as _Jack_.

 _One of the first rules of this game,_ she reminded herself. _Never get involved._

She smiled ruefully to herself. A small child had already blown that one well and truly out of the water. 

“Do you know what papers you want? French? The south might be safer.”

“No,” Phryne shook her head. “No, I want to try and get her out of France entirely. If I can track down any relatives still in Germany I will, but I’m not sending her back there and I can’t keep her here.”

“Has anyone said anything yet?”

“You mean the neighbours?”

He nodded. “Or anyone else.”

“No. But it’s difficult. Obviously she can’t go out - I don’t know what I’d say if people asked who she was. Everyone knows I don’t have a niece. I don’t even have a sister. Not…I mean, I don’t anymore.”

He didn’t ask, and she was grateful.  

“I can’t have people over to the apartment for the same reasons - and people are used to me throwing dinner parties. Salons. Soirées. Sooner rather than later, questions are going to be asked.”

“Salons?”

“Parties. Supposedly to discuss literature, art, music, that kind of thing.” She glanced up at him, a wicked glint in her eye, her momentary stumble over memories of Janey forgotten. “You should come to one, Inspector. Demolish that reputation that you were so concerned about.”

A hint of a blush tinged his ears, and she smiled. The effect was rather endearing. 

“Some rise by sin, Miss Fisher, and some by virtue fall. I think it would take more than me to tarnish your reputation as the woman about town.”

“A Shakespeare man,” Phryne raised her eyebrows in delight. “I think you’d fit right in, Inspector. We could do with something to balance out all the cubes and modernists.”

“Anyway”. He shook his head, the blush spreading. “Soirées aside….”

“British. The papers.…can you do British?”

“You know all ferries to England have stopped?”

“There are other ways. Through the south to Spain or Portugal, perhaps, and a ship from there. I have family in London…” She thought of her father, and grimaced. “And friends. At least there’d be someone to take her in.”

He nodded, slowly. She could almost see him thinking, and she took the opportunity to watch him. _A strong face. Matches the hands…_ and yet the hand that still held hers was surprisingly gentle.

Phryne thought a lot of things about Jack Robinson were going to surprise her.

“Where can I contact you?”

“The apartment phone is safe.”

They had reached the edge of the gardens, the wrought iron gate giving way on to the Odéon beyond. There was many a time she had wandered through here and on to her favourite bookshop, whiling away the hours chatting and browsing and drinking tea; Sylvia and Adrienne were more like hostesses than bookshop proprietors. Briefly, she wondered if Jack had ever been.

“All right, Miss Fisher.” His hand slipped out of hers, his arm pulled away, and she felt the cool space where warmth had just been. It felt too soon, too sudden, and those blue eyes were all but hidden under the brim of his hat. “Find out what you can from the girl. I’ll be in touch.”

She stood there by the gate, watching him until he was out of sight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bookshop referred to is Shakespeare & Co, established by Sylvia Beach, and run by her and her lover / partner Adrienne Monnier until they were forced to close in the early 1940s.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update!! Lol. Things may be a bit sporadic over the next few weeks - I'm in the middle of giving up my main job, so life is a little crazy while I clear my desk and get used to a freelance writing life! I will be around, though :). 
> 
> Thanks, as always, to TorieGirl for betaing, and for all the encouragement and support!

Jack Robinson felt those eyes watching him all the way down the street.

As he turned the corner, out of sight onto Rue Racine, he wondered whether she had seen his churning stomach, or sensed the slight tremor in his fingers. He was not normally given to nerves. The war had beaten those out of him as mercilessly as it had reduced other men to nervous wrecks, and he had often wondered what twist of fate had spun the wheel one way or the other. Rosie, he thought, would almost have preferred a broken man to the cold, closed-off stranger who had stepped off the ship from France. At least then she might not have felt so alone. _Broken_ was something that was more common. _Broken_ was something that she and her friends and relatives could perhaps have understood.

_You do have a reputation to uphold, Miss Fisher._

He hadn’t flirted like that in years.

The breeze toyed with the bottom of his coat as he walked, slowly, letting the fresh air cool him and the quiet bustle of the side streets calm his thoughts. The cafés were starting to fill now with people, spilling out onto the pavement with short, sharp shots of espresso, and the scent curled around the corners, mingling with cigarette smoke, the fragrance of the florist and the tang of exhaust fumes and, still, a lingering hint of a woman’s perfume. It filled his senses with sunshine and florals and birdsong on a summer’s day, but with just enough spiciness to make him wary. Just like those eyes.

_Get it together, Robinson._

He had no idea what had induced him to agree to another job. As with so many things, the first time had been easy. The second time easier still. But the last time with the artist had almost been a disaster, and so he had sworn not to push his luck. He missed Australia, but he had no desire to be on the next boat home just yet. There was still work that he could do without risking his neck in blatantly illegal activities, and the thought of returning to Melbourne, with all the memories that would no longer be memories but realities rubbed in his face every day, was not one that he could stomach. The humiliation of demotion. The intrusion of the press, who would no doubt relish digging up yesterday’s news. He held no hard feelings towards Rosie - their marriage had been over long before the official decree - but he didn’t much fancy the idea of her being in his orbit again either. And so for the moment, Paris was home. He didn’t want to jeopardise it for the sake of a Jewish refugee child and a beguiling woman with green eyes.

And yet here he was, heading not towards the police station to tackle the mountain of paperwork that awaited him, but towards a safe house tucked away in the jumble of streets that surrounded the Pantheon.

It was Hugh who answered the back door, still dressed only in his singlet and trousers, his hair sticking up in all directions and that perpetually surprised look on his face that always made Jack smile.

“Morning, Hugh.”

“Uh…good morning, sir.” Hugh ran his hands quickly through his hair, making it even more dishevelled, and stood to one side to allow Jack through into the simple, homely kitchen. No matter how many times Jack had told him to dispense with the formalities, the younger man always insisted on calling him ‘sir’. Today, it made him feel old. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“You never are,” Jack replied drily, and nodded in greeting to the pretty woman who came towards him, wiping her hands on her apron and beaming at him with a surprised smile. “Good morning, Alice. My apologies for the intrusion.”

“You know you’re welcome here anytime, Jack.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek before ushering him towards a chair at the large wooden table that took up most of the space. “Even though you always bring trouble with you.”

But her bright eyes were sparkling, and Jack knew that she relished the “trouble” he brought them. 

“Pierre!” She called through to a distant corner of the small house, pushing the teapot across the table towards Jack. “We have a visitor!”

The small man who came bustling through to the kitchen was like an older version of Hugh, even down to the mussed-up hair, and Jack rose to shake his hand. He had always had immense respect for Pierre, his first contact in Paris, and now the little family had become almost like his own.

“So what have you brought us this time?”

“Pierre!” Alice admonished her husband. “Let him at least drink his tea!”

“Pah,” Pierre made a dismissive gesture. “He doesn’t come for the tea.”

“But he does come for the cake.” Alice nudged the plate of madeleines towards Jack, and his stomach gave a loud grumble. He hadn’t eaten breakfast, and Alice gave a knowing smile. “Because if I don’t feed him, who else will, hmm?”

“The man needs bread and stew, not those things.” But Pierre reached across and nabbed a little cake off the tope of the pile anyway, popping it in his mouth as he regarded Jack with a quizzical look. He remained standing, his wiry energy not conducive to sitting still. “So. You have not retired after all?”

Jack leaned back in his chair, his eyes moving from Pierre, to Alice, to Hugh. Husband, wife, son. It had been Pierre, a screen printer by trade, who had first decided that he would do whatever he could, consequences be damned, to resist the oncoming tide of fascism, swearing on the life of his beloved pet parrot that he would never see Paris fall to those “bastard Nazis”. It had been Alice, who worked part time as a clerical officer in the Department of Justice, who was perfectly placed to talk to people, to access records, and to find those who needed help. And it had been hardworking Hugh, apprenticed to his father’s printing business and with an artistic talent for forging handwriting, who made the actual papers. It was a dangerous business, run entirely from Pierre’s little workshop at the front of the house, but Jack knew that none of them would have it any other way.

He wondered how many more there were like them, hidden away in the corners of the city, working tirelessly, without recognition or thanks, and putting their own freedom in jeopardy to help those who needed it.

“A Jewish refugee girl.”

“Ah.”

Pierre nodded, and Hugh’s eyes went wide.

“You want French papers?”

“No,” Jack shook his head, and reached for another cake. “British.”

“But all the ferries have stopped.”

“The woman taking care of the girl….she has family in England.”

“And who is this woman?” It was Alice who spoke, her keen eyes alert and questioning, and Jack nodded. He had known she would ask.

“One Miss Phryne Fisher.” He took a mouthful of tea, and continued slowly, voicing thoughts and suspicions and random facts that had been forming and coalescing in his mind ever since he had left the girl in her apartment. “I think she’s working for the British. Not officially - more someone that they use off the books - but I got the impression her social contacts make for a pretty good cover. She was born in Australia, grew up in England, served in the war as a nurse as soon as she was old enough. Spent most of the years since flitting between London and Paris and working as a…” he racked his brains, trying to think of the expression his informant had used, “Lady Detective. Her father inherited a barony in the war, so the family has money…”

Pierre held up one hand to stop him saying any more. “You trust her?”

Jack looked at Pierre, wondering whether to try and explain even though he didn’t really understand it himself, but in the end he just nodded. 

“Yes. I do.”

“Then that is all.”

Jack felt a knot in his stomach un-tightening, and a wave of gratitude for these people washed over him. He knew their acceptance without questions was not only a sign of trust in him, but a matter of practicality. The less they knew, the better. But it still humbled him that they would put their lives on the line for someone that they didn’t know and probably never would, simply because he had come to them and asked for their help. 

“So.” Pierre’s twinkling eyes, so like his wife’s, turned to his son as they got down to business. “You can do British, Hugh, yes?”

“I think so.” Hugh nodded, his round face earnest. “I would need a photograph. Her new name, date and place of birth. The usual…and of course, the girl will need to be able to speak English in case she’s questioned.”

“She has barely spoken at all yet, apparently.”

“Then that will need to be ascertained.” Alice poured more tea for them all. “British papers aren’t any use unless she can carry them off.”

“Phryne thinks she’s traumatised.” He ignored Alice’s subtle raised eyebrow at his familiar use of the name, and refused, at that particular point in time, to question when exactly he had started thinking of Miss Fisher as _Phryne._ “But I just wanted to see if it would even be possible before we go any further.”

Or when, exactly, he had started thinking of himself and Miss Fisher as _we._

“It’s possible, sir, definitely.” Hugh’s enthusiasm was endearing, and a useful distraction. “A challenge, of course. But possible.”

“Is it even possible to get to England now, though?” Alice asked. “British papers aren’t much use if she can’t get there.”

“Through the south to Spain or Portugal, and then a ship from there.” Jack didn’t need to add thateven that route was fickle and dangerous, and likely to be cut off at any point. They all knew that. “Ferries are still running from Lisbon.”

“And if you had any sense you would be on one yourself, my friend.” Pierre shook his head. “Not risking your neck here.”

“You know I wouldn’t _retire_ , as you put it, Pierre.”

“You are too noble for your own good.”

“And so are you.” Alice’s loving look at her husband brought a lump to Jack’s throat. “We are all here. In it together, as they say.”

“Is shit any better when you are submerged with friends?”

Alice laughed and Jack smiled, partly to cover his emotion. This was not normally like him, either. He was obviously running on too little sleep and not enough food. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the warmth and banter wash over him, and didn’t even jump when a squawk from the parlour cut through the conversation. He had no idea where Pierre had got the nameless parrot, who, despite being simply known as “the bird”, was just as much a part of the family as Hugh. It was just another one of those things that made this quirky little haven what it was, and he had learnt to savour it all. But despite his wandering thoughts and the gentle bustle around him, there was only one image filling his eyes.

He felt Alice’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Jack?” He opened his eyes to meet hers as she reached across the table, her expression worried. “Be careful.”

He knew she wasn’t talking about the papers. She seemed to have a mother’s instinct where he was concerned, even though he was more her age than her own son, and she never missed a thing.

He nodded. He didn’t say that he thought it was probably a bit late.

“I will.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of shorter chapters coming up, and I'll try and get them posted fairly quickly! Life is getting back to some semblance of normal now after the dramas of quitting work ;) ;), so I am actually going to try and stick to some kind of posting / writing schedule....we'll see! Thank you so much for all the lovely comments and for continuing to read :). And thanks again to TorieGirl for betaing these next few chapters.

“Here’s the post for you, Miss.”

Dot handed the little bundle to Phryne almost as soon as she had stepped through the door and shrugged out of her coat.

“Thank you, Dot. Where is everyone?”

“Mr Butler is in the kitchen with Jane.”

“Umm-hmm. Everything alright?”

“I’ve been trying to teach her to sew.”

Phryne snorted. Her mind was still preoccupied from the morning, her slow walk back through the back streets and along the river having done nothing to calm her swirling thoughts, but the image of Dot attempting to teach Jane to sew brought a smile to her lips. Jane still hadn’t spoken, but Phryne had seen enough of her spirited nature to know that sewing would not be her idea of fun.

“How did that go?”

Dot grimaced as she held up an old pair of Phryne’s trousers, the legs now raggedly sewn together at the bottom instead of neatly hemmed, and Phryne shook her head.

“Never mind.” She kicked off her heels, and sighed in relief. “There might be a solution sooner than we think, Dot.”

“Really, Miss?” Dot looked surprised. “But she’s just getting settled in.”

“I know.” Phryne didn’t like to admit that she was almost as attached as Dot. It was inevitable, she supposed. Both she and her new companion had a stronger than normal empathy for those in trouble, and she knew that Dot had spent a lot of time with Jane, reading to her and engaging in one-sided conversation about household tasks. “But it might not happen. We’ll see. Not a word to Jane.”

“Of course. But, Miss….”

“Yes, Dot?”

“Is it to do with that policeman? The one who was here?”

“Yes.” Phryne nodded, her mind flooding once again with sunshine, and the green of the trees, and blue eyes under a fedora hat. _Damn the man_. “It is.”

“And is it dangerous, Miss?”

“I’m not sure yet, Dot.” Best break her in gently, Phryne thought. It had only been a couple of months since Dot had almost been on the streets herself, thrown out of her job as a dresser in the Montmartre cabaret where Phryne and Mac had enjoyed some fairly wild nights out. That episode, Phryne suspected, had been enough excitement to last Dot an entire lifetime.

“Oh.”

“But best not to worry until we have to.”

“I’ll do my best, Miss.”

Dot looked so earnest that Phryne almost giggled.

“Was there anything else, Dot?” They were still standing in the hallway, and Phryne was fairly sure that Dot had not intercepted her just in order to give her the post and a report on Jane’s dismal sewing skills.

“Oh”, Dot gathered herself quickly. “Yes, Miss. Dr Macmillan is in the parlour, Miss. I gave her a cup of tea. She hasn’t been here long.”

“Ah”. Phryne felt her slightly foggy mood lift considerably. “Thank you, Dot.”

“I’ll bring some more tea.” And with a quick curtsey - another formality that Phryne couldn’t quite shake her out of - she disappeared towards the kitchen.

The sight that greeted Phryne in the parlour made her smile widen: Elizabeth Macmillan, settled inher favourite chair with her legs swung over the arm, feet dangling in stripy socks, glasses on, cup in hand, and her nose buried in the newspaper.

“Made yourself at home then, I see?” Phryne tossed the little bundle of mail down on the coffee table and plopped down on the chaise, nodding her thanks to Dot as more tea appeared.

“Well, when Dorothy said you were out meeting a policeman in the park, I decided to stay and…you know. Make sure you were ok.” Mac’s eyes were twinkling as she set aside the newspaper. “She also makes a very good cup of tea.”

“You know she’s terrified of you. Ever since you threatened the cabaret madam with surgical castration.”

“Is that why she always makes my tea extra strong with extra lemon?”

“Probably,” Phryne nodded. 

“That woman deserved it.” Mac downed the last of her tea and reached for the pot. “So? How was it?”

“How was what?”

But feigning innocence had never worked with Mac, and Phryne gave up on the half-hearted attempt before she had really started.

“It was….interesting.”

“In what way?”

“He says he can get papers for Jane.”

Mac whistled through her teeth, and shook her head. “I’m not even going to ask how or why.” She swung her legs back over the chair arm, planting her feet firmly on the floor and fixing Phryne with a stern look. “You know that could have been a disaster?”

“Everything could always be a disaster,” Phryne shrugged. “But it wasn’t.”

“Luckily.” Mac drained her teacup. “Do you trust him?”

It was a long moment before Phryne answered. The windows of the parlour were slightly open, welcoming in the late autumn breeze with its scent of copper and gold and burnished sunshine, but she could still make out something different that lingered. Something spicy and earthy and masculine. Something very definitely _him._

“Yes.” She nodded at last. “I do. And don’t for God’s sake ask me why.”

“Darling, I know why.” Mac’s gaze became tender, her voice softer. “You can’t bring her back, you know. And you don’t have to save the rest of the world because of it.”

“It was my fault, Mac.” Phryne grit her teeth against the sudden lump in her throat that threatened to spill over into tears, her tiredness catching up with her. She didn’t normally feel this emotional.

“No, it wasn’t.” Mac’s mouth curved in a gentle smile. “Charges dismissed.”

“You can’t.” Phryne shook her head, feeling those damn tears pricking the back of her eyes… _only with Mac,_ she thought…

“Miss?”

Phryne swung round to see Dot nervously standing in the doorway, her hands clasped in front of her as if in prayer. Vaguely, she wondered whether she should try it. She had never believed in any kind of god, but perhaps now was the time to start hedging her bets.

“Yes, Dot?”

“I’m sorry, Miss, but it’s Mrs de Bourget’s house on the phone. An invitation for Friday night. She seemed very anxious for you to accept, and she wanted to know today.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Phryne rolled her eyes, taking the opportunity to blink, and sniff a little, and hope that Dot hadn’t noticed anything wrong. “An invitation to what?”

“The operetta, Miss. Something her son is putting on.”

Mac tried, unsuccessfully, to cover her snort of laughter with a cough, and Phryne looked at her in despair.

“It’ll be horrendous.” Mac shrugged. “But go. It’s what you do, isn’t it? Take that Inspector with you, might liven things up a bit.”

“Not helpful.” Phryne turned back to Dot. “Tell her thank you for the invitation, and I’ll do my best to be there…tell her I’m recovering from an autumn chill, or something.”

“You know medically there’s no such thing? Autumn chills, spring fevers, winter flu…it’s all just the common cold.”

“But that sounds so boring.”

Mac raised her hands in surrender. “Then I bow to the medical miracle.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously, you should take him along.”

“Mac!”

“Should I say there might be a plus one, Miss?” Dot looked unsure, and Phryne gave Mac a mock glower before briefly considering. Not the Inspector, obviously. But there were others she could call…and Mac was right, it would be horrendous otherwise.

“Yes, I think so.”

Dot bobbed, and left the doorway, and Phryne caught Mac’s eye.

“No. I wasn’t going to invite him. Maybe someone else.”

“Whatever you say.” Mac shrugged. “But you might want to pass on a bit of information….well. Does no information count as information?”

“You’ve asked around?” Phryne sat up straighter, the operetta forgotten.

“As much as I could. I treated a woman who was on the same train as Jane. She came to the drop-in at the hospital. She remembers seeing a girl on her own, and thinking it was unusual because most of the people on that train were families. She tried talking to her, but got nothing. She was concerned about her, actually, said she seemed totally alone. Certainly no parents with her, and the woman never saw anyone who might have been the brother.”

“Thank you, Mac.”

“Hope it helps.”

“It does.” Phryne nodded. “It confirms what we already thought, at least.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Get the papers and get her out of here.”

But her heart wasn’t really in it, and Mac’s knowing look told her it was obvious.

_Rule number 2 - if you can’t manage rule number 1, at least don’t make it men or children._

“Phryne?” Mac sounded worried as she reached across and took Phryne’s hand. “Be careful. Please?”

She nodded, knowing that Mac would not believe her, knowing that it was probably a bit late.

“I will.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter - and we find out a little bit about Miss Jane ;). 
> 
> Thanks as always to TorieGirl for betaing and to everyone else for reading!

_That night, she dreamt of the circus again._

_She knew she was dreaming, but there was still nothing she could do to stop it. She saw the black and white tent, door flapping from where her sister had disappeared inside, and heard the music and the cheers and the laughter. She saw the streaks of blood begin to spread downwards, soaking the cloth and eventually turning the earth red. Her sister was long gone by the time it reached her, rooted to the spot, the tears streaming down her face and her throat numb from trying to shout her warnings. She felt it on her feet, warm and sticky and so real. But this time, she felt a hand trying to pull her back. Large and strong, familiar and yet completely unknown. She tried to turn to see who it was, but her vision was so blurred from her tears that all she could make out was a long coat, a face all but hidden by the brim of a hat. She summoned all her strength to force out a scream…._

“Miss Phryne?”

The hand on her shoulder was small, and Phryne gasped in air as if she was drowning. Her throat felt constricted and she thought for a moment that she was choking.

“I…”

She felt the bedcovers being pulled back and a small, warm body pressing tightly up against her own.

“Mama always said that a hug and a hot cocoa helped keep nightmares away.”

Phryne forced her eyes open, bringing her shaking hands round to hold Jane close, stroking the girl’s long hair and inhaling the scent of soft, clean lavender, each breath coming a little easier.

“Did she?” Her voice was hoarse, and she wondered if she really had been screaming. “Well, I think she was right. Thank you, Jane.”

“I needed the bathroom and I heard you.”

“I’m sorry.” _Deep breaths._ Her whole body was trembling. 

‘It’s ok.” She felt Jane’s arms squeeze. “I have nightmares too, sometimes. They aren’t nice.”

They lay for a few moments in silence, and gradually Phryne felt her body settle. Matching her own breathing to Jane’s was soothing, each inhale forcing the smell and the sight and the feel of the blood from her mind, each breath out relaxing the tight muscles that were still trying to flee, and as her brain slowly cleared it dawned on her that it was the first time she had heard Jane speak since she arrived.

She didn’t know whether she wanted to know what the girl’s nightmares were about, but she did want to at least try and ask a few gentle questions. There was something about the hours just after midnight that held confidences safe in a way that the arms of daylight never could. And besides, they were both awake now. 

“Did you say something about hot cocoa, Jane?”

The girl nodded. “Mama made it with hot milk and cinnamon. It always made me feel better.”

“Then I think that sounds like a very good idea.”

 

*****

 

“No cinnamon, I’m afraid, but I did put in a little scraping of nutmeg.”

Mr Butler placed three steaming mugs of cocoa down on the kitchen table, one each for Phryne and Jane and, having accepted Phryne’s invitation to join them, one for himself. Phryne hadn’t intended to wake him. She was fairly sure she could cope with making a panful of cocoa without too much of a disaster, but she and Jane had discovered him already awake in the kitchen, wrapped in his red housecoat and quietly heating milk on the stove. Light sleeping came with the territory, perhaps, and if she had been more easily embarrassed she would have blushed at the thought of all the other nights he must have been woken.

Fortunately, being discreet was also a prerequisite of the job.

“Thank you, Mr B.”

The cocoa was good, hot and smooth and rich, the slight spiciness soothing. Inhaling deeply, it reminded her of another spicy scent that had never really left her senses, and she allowed herself to indulge in it. _The madness of the 2am shadows,_ she thought. She had only met him twice.

“I like it with nutmeg.”

“Well, that’s good, Jane.” Mr B settled himself down on the chair opposite Phryne. “Did your mother make it often?”

Jane blew across the top of her mug and nodded. “Every time Peter or I had a nightmare. That’s why we were going to make some. Miss Phryne had a screamer.”

Phryne exchanged a quick glance with Mr B, but Jane didn’t seem to notice, intent on creating silky ripples across the surface of her chocolate.

“Peter’s your brother?”

Jane stopped blowing. “He was.” She started to stir instead, the small metal spoon clinking on the china. “He’s dead now.”

Phryne had expected as much, although it still felt like a twist in her stomach, and she risked another glance at Mr B. His kindly smile was fixed on Jane, and she decided to let him do the talking.

“What happened to him?”

“He said it was tee something….”

“TB?”

Jane nodded, her eyes still fixed on her mug, her small fingers wrapped tightly around it.

“And what about your parents?”

“They died too.”

“Of TB as well?”

“No,” Jane shook her head. “The night of glass.”

Phryne’s fingers tightened around her own mug, and she hoped her intake of breath hadn’t been audible. _Kristallnacht._ The night of broken glass. No one knew for sure how many lives had been lost and homes destroyed, but she, like everyone else, had a grim idea.

Jane fell silent for a few moments, and Mr Butler did not ask. He seemed to be waiting.

“Papa had a clothes shop.”

“Ah, he was a tailor?”

Jane nodded, and returned Mr Butler’s smile with a watery one of her own. That, Phryne thought, explained the expensive dress Jane had been wearing.

“Mama used to sew in the shop. They were killed by the crowd. Both of them, in the shop. Peter and me were in the bedroom upstairs and they never came looking for us. We hid until they’d gone.”

Phryne could only imagine what carnage the two children had emerged to, and she couldn’t help herself reaching across to take Jane’s hand.

“We ran away. Peter was only little, so I packed for him. I knew Papa’s brother lived outside the city somewhere, and we found it. We stayed there for a few months, Uncle Michael hid us. But then Peter got sick. He wouldn’t eat. I got caught stealing some bread for him, because he’d always liked bread dipped in milk and Uncle Michael wouldn’t give him any, but because I got caught Uncle Michael threw us out. Peter died. And I came here. I bought my ticket, I promise.”

She raised her eyes to Mr Butler’s with a look of sad defiance, as if daring him to question her little speech or tell her off for stealing, but he simply looked at her with such a compassionate smile in his eyes that Phryne thought she might cry.

“I didn’t mean to steal the bread.”

“Sometimes,” Phryne squeezed the small fingers that were wrapped in her own, “you have to do bad things in order to do good things. You did something good for your brother.”

Jane nodded and raised her mug to her lips, but even that couldn’t mask the enormous yawn that suddenly escaped.

“Bedtime, perhaps?”

Mr B raised an eyebrow at Phryne and she nodded, an understanding passing between them that this was enough, certainly for tonight. She didn’t know what had prompted the girl to start talking. Perhaps the knowledge that she wasn’t alone in her nightmares. Whatever the reason, Phryne didn’t want to push it.

She left Mr B to tidy away the remains of the cocoa, and went with Jane back to the small spare room that had been warmed and tidied and fashioned into some kind of decent guest room. Normally it was never used, and Phryne had never bothered with it much, but she had to admit Dot had done a good job. She had even found a teddy bear somewhere, now lying face down on the pillow where Jane had abandoned it earlier, and Phryne smiled as she realised the bear was probably Dot’s own.

“Warm enough?”

She tucked the covers snugly around Jane, and the little girl nodded, her eyes sleepy.

“Miss?”

“Yes, Jane?”

“Are you going to send me back? To the orphanage?”

“Well….” Phryne stroked a stray strand of hair from Jane’s face. “I’m not sure I can.”

Orphanages. Welfare. It was all the same, and she knew what it was like. There was no way she could knowingly put another child through that.

“How would you like to stay here for a bit?”

Jane nodded slowly, and Phryne could see a question forming which she tried to preempt.

“We can get you some papers. With the name Jane on, if you like. And then…well, we’ll see. Have you ever been to England, Jane?”

“No.” Jane tried to smother another yawn in the teddy bear. “Mama used to live in London. She told us stories. But I’ve never been. I’d like to see the Queen.”

“Ok.” Phryne smiled. “Well, I suppose we can see what we can do.”

“But….Miss?” Jane’s eyes were serious as she looked up at Phryne, her dark hair splayed over the pillow. “I’m not a nice girl. I do bad things sometimes.”

_Don’t we all._ Phryne smiled. One day, she thought, Jane would realise the real difference between good and bad, and know that she hadn’t done anything wrong at all.

“Well, “ she smoothed out the covers, “I’m not always so nice either. So I think you’re just the kind of girl I like.”

**Author's Note:**

> The German army didn’t occupy Paris until June 1940. Between the declaration of war in September 1939 and the start of the occupation, Paris did experience a kind of limbo in which people tried their best to carry on as normal, and most people didn’t believe that the Germans would ever reach Paris at all. There were, though, already agents all over Paris, working for the intelligence services of both France and Britain (and probably other countries too). These were mostly untrained “laymen” (the playwright Noel Coward worked for the British government in a similar capacity to Phryne, listening and watching and sending back messages), and many of them were women like Phryne - good looking, intelligent, independent, and able to fit in. 
> 
> The July party mentioned really did happen - complete with elephants, ponies, and 90 year old American socialite hostess Elsie de Wolfe dressed as a circus ringmaster - and the quotes from Vogue appeared in the October 1939 edition.


End file.
